


The Evolution of Touch

by CaroltheQueen (always_1895)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 14:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7443472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_1895/pseuds/CaroltheQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They fell closer into each other's personal space, the small distance disappearing in increments.</p><p>A look at how the physical intimacy between Marcus and Abby has grown through the seasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Evolution of Touch

Abby only let herself dwell on Marcus' touch under the blanket of night; the small hours of the morning when sleep eluded her for one reason or another, and her restless mind had a will of its own.

When it first happened it was in those early days after they'd fallen to Earth, and she wondered, after over a year of careful, cold distance, how and when they had seemingly breached that space between them. She thought of the launch bay, his physical presence a sudden, overwhelming comfort to her aching, breathless body, his hands cradling her face, drawing her to him, and the warm, solid feel of his chest beneath her cheek. She hadn't been so close to him in years, had forgotten that he could be so gentle.

Perhaps that had been when the dam had broken. Perhaps it had been her throwing out her arm without pause to stop him from staying behind on the Ark, to stop him from leaving _her._ Something had shifted in her at the thought of going down without him, the gap that he would undeniably leave in her life. Because he had always been there within her orbit, even when she didn't want him to be. The sudden space afforded to them on Earth, and his diplomatic mission to broker peace with the Grounders, made Abby very aware of just how far away he could be, in a way that was never possible on the Ark. The nights when he was away, she felt his absence like a physical ache, when she was too tired to deny it to herself. 

His return brought new touches from him, of reassurance and protection; hands, firm and soft at the same time, clutching her upper arms and his body at her back. That silent support was her constant now, something she knew she could not be without.

The nights following the fall of Mount Weather, when she was kept awake by the searing pain in her leg and the heavy ache of her daughter's absence, she thought about the desperation in his eyes and voice as she was torn from his side, fighting against the chains that stopped him from erasing that distance that seemed greater than any she'd felt before. How that pain on his face had transformed into his hands flitting all over her once he was released and the Mountain Men were dead, assessing, reassuring _himself_ this time, that she was alive and breathing and _there._ How it turned into the two of them grasping each other's hand and barely letting go on their way home; barely letting go even once they were there. 

He was there when Jackson put her under to treat her leg, eyes bright with worry and lips brushing feather light over the back of the hand he held. The fragile intimacy of it had her breath catching and fresh tears springing to her eyes, even as the drugs flooded her in a warm haze and tugged her down. She didn't want to leave him, even for a moment, but the pain was too great and she sank into oblivion. And he was still there when she woke up, though he'd succumbed to exhaustion, his head resting on the bed near her stomach, fingers still entwined with hers. 

She soaked in his presence, the deep breaths he took as he slept, the pull of her body to his, and reached over to card a tentative hand through his hair, not wanting to wake him but unable to hold herself back in that moment. She found it as soft as she'd imagined, already having found herself a little entranced by the slight curl of it as he let it grow, untamed. Marcus let out a soft moan and, despite the grogginess of the drugs still in her system, Abby _felt_ the sound of it stir something low in her belly; felt a sense of pleasure that really didn't surprise her all that much at having drawn that noise from him.

He shifted and she knew he was awake, but didn't withdraw from her touch. He looked at her sleepily for a moment, before his brain caught up and he must have registered her hand stroking his hair. A little self-conscious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he slowly (regrettably?) raised his head, Her fingers fell away, trailing over his cheek, the stubble on his chin, as they went. 

“Sorry.” He murmured. 

She frowned, “Marcus, you _need _to sleep.” Her voice was rough, her throat hoarse from screaming.__

“I'll sleep when you do.” He countered easily, moving to brush a strand of hair from her forehead. She didn't know then how true that statement would be in the coming months.

His thumb ghosted over her cheekbone so delicately, like he was afraid she would shatter. It opened that final door in her mind that openly yearned for his touch, the impulse that she'd tucked away, denied herself, the feelings that she'd refused to examine too closely, it all came rushing through her, filling her with warmth and want. 

It would be the only comfort she'd allow herself in the time that Clarke was gone, leaning into the brushes of his hands over her shoulders, arms, hands, the small of her back; returning his affection and support by covering his hands with hers, playfully tugging at the ends of his hair as it grew and curled at the nape of his neck, falling into his eyes, brushing a finger over his beard as it grew thicker and watching a smile light up his face. The familiar growing intimacy between them came to feel as much like _home_ to her as Clarke's smile, the smell of her hair. 

They fell closer into each other's personal space, the small distance disappearing in increments. And when his eyes flickered to her lips she imagined how it would feel to kiss him, to have his mouth and hands explore her body, map her bare skin. Under the cover of darkness, between sleep and wakefulness, she slipped a hand between her legs and imagined it was his fingers stroking at her core instead of her own, thought about the weight of him covering her and how he would feel inside her, and came with his name on her lips, breathed quietly into the night. 

She kissed his cheek and called it hope, quietly letting him know that she was ready, but they waited too long and the weight of her love and everything they would never be crushed her when he stood before her in chains. That love came pouring out of her through her tears and her confession, and she couldn't look at the devastation on his face.

And though he denied her his kiss then, walking away to his death and taking her heart with him, he seized his second chance later, when freedom and life were back in his grasp, and finally, _finally _claimed her mouth with his, took her in his arms, with that passion she'd been aching for. She savoured the taste of him, the prickle of his beard, his hands trailing over her neck and making her shiver. She absorbed as much sensation as she could. He left her burning for him; left her with a promise.__

They weren't finished. This was just their beginning.


End file.
